The Inside Ring Page 13

  Looking at Darcy Mattis, DeMarco said, “See if you can talk some sense into your husband, Mrs. Mattis.”

  “You leave my wife out of this,” Billy said, taking a step toward DeMarco, his hands curling into fists. “Now get the hell out of my home.”

  DeMarco returned to his car and sat there in the darkness doing nothing for an hour. He wanted to see if Billy would run to Estep. He didn’t. At ten thirty the lights went out. DeMarco doubted Billy was sleeping soundly.

  DeMarco used his cell phone to call Emma’s man Mike. He told him that tomorrow morning he wanted Sammy to follow Billy and Mike to stick with Estep.

  “And what are you going to be doing?” Mike asked.

  “Coordinating your efforts,” DeMarco said.

  23

  Some days go badly. They begin badly and end badly and in between beginning and ending nothing good happens. DeMarco’s first indicator that he was going to have one of those days was when he overslept. He jumped into his car—hair wet and uncombed from his shower, his shirt untucked, his tie undone—and raced down his driveway and knocked the contents of his trash can onto his neighbor’s manicured lawn. He smeared tomato sauce on his hands picking up the garbage.

  That should have been enough for one morning but a whimsical god decided it wasn’t. Driving down the center lane of the Beltway, DeMarco’s car decided to eat its own transmission. The majority of the motorists caught in the backup he created before he could push his car to the side of the road, male and female alike, raised one finger in support as they passed him. The two hours he spent waiting for the tow truck gave him ample time to feel sorry for himself, time to think that this day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  DeMarco was seated in the waiting room of an overpriced Georgetown garage—the sort of place where they give you Starbucks coffee to compensate for ninety-dollar-an-hour labor charges—when he received a call from Mike.

  “Billy went to see Estep again,” Mike said. “When he left for work this morning he drove around a while to make sure he wasn’t being followed but Sammy stuck with him. Sammy’s a leach on wheels. He finally ends up at this restaurant on K Street, not too far from Estep’s apartment. Estep was at the place when Billy arrived. I tailed him there.”

  Mike said Estep did most of the talking while Billy just sat there “lookin’ whipped.”

  “Sammy went in and tried to hear what they were talking about, but couldn’t get close enough. Estep was clutching Billy’s forearm and whispering to him. ‘Kinda frantically’ is how Sammy put it—like he was trying to convince Billy of something. After they talked, Billy drove to his office with Sammy tailing.”

  “What did Estep do after Billy left?” DeMarco asked.

  “He sat in the restaurant for half an hour, just smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Thinking I guess. Then he gets up and makes a real quick phone call. He sits back down and about ten minutes later the phone in the restaurant rings. He talks for a while then he makes another phone call that lasted about ten minutes.”

  “Give me the number of the phone,” DeMarco said, “and I’ll call Alice.”

  “I already did. Alice is mad at you. She says you don’t care if she dies or not.”

  “I don’t. So what did Alice find out?”

  “Zip. The first call may have been a signal. You know, call and let the phone ring once and hang up, and then the person called goes to another booth and rings Estep back at the restaurant.”

  “What about the second call, the one that lasted ten minutes.”

  “It went to a bar in Waycross, Georgia.”

  “So we don’t know who he called?”

  “That’s what I already told ya.”

  Not able to think of anything else to say, DeMarco said, “Well, stick with Estep.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mike said.

  Christ, he was grumpy today. “Sammy’s got my cell phone number, doesn’t he?” DeMarco asked.

  “Yeah, and I’m sure he’ll call when he needs your advice.” Mike hung up without saying good-bye.

  Employee morale seemed to be in a slump. Might have to organize a company picnic, DeMarco thought.

  DEMARCO TOOK A cab to his appointment at the Marriott; he was, at that point, five hours late. The man he was meeting, George Morris, CFO of a sheet-metal fabricator in the Speaker’s district, was not a happy man. Then again, he would have been unhappy if DeMarco had arrived on time.

  “We have to reduce pension benefits, Joe. We’re letting Mahoney know as a courtesy. We’re not asking permission.”

  “He said no,” DeMarco said. The fact that the Speaker had told DeMarco to help General Banks didn’t stop him from giving him other assignments.

  “Hey, it’s either that or we start laying guys off.”

  “You won’t lay anybody off. Those two defense contracts you got, there in the fine print, they specify fines for late delivery. Somebody over at the Pentagon is going to start reading the fine print the day you hand out a pink slip.”

  “Goddamnit, Joe, we’re dying! Our competition’s outsourcing everything and our material costs are skyrocketing. We have to do something.”

  “George, tell me something. If you guys are dying, how is it that your board gave your CEO a three-million-dollar bonus this year? That’s on top of his twelve-million-dollar salary.”

  “How did you find—”

  “And you, you got one point six million, stock options included.”

  “I deserved every penny of that bon—”

  “You are not going to cut pension benefits and you are not going to lay people off.”

  Morris sat for a moment, fuming, before he said, “Why the hell did we contribute half a million to his goddamn campaign? You tell me that, DeMarco.”

  “You contributed half a million to get two defense contracts worth six hundred million which keeps twelve hundred people employed.”

  “But our profit margin—”

  DeMarco’s cell phone rang.

  Sammy Wix’s nasal Brooklynese filled his ear. “Dis guy Mattis. He’s sittin’ inna bar, like he’s waitin’ to meet somebody.”

  “Great,” DeMarco said. “Call me when someone shows up.”

  “Uh, boss, I hafta leave by six. I told Emma, when she hired me for dis gig, I could work every day dis week ’cept tonight. It’s my grandkid’s birthday. Emma said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Shit. “Sure, Sammy, I understand. Where are you?”

  Sammy told him.

  “I gotta go, George. Don’t cross Mahoney.”

  Then DeMarco remembered that his car was still in intensive care.

  Now he would discover the meaning of a bad day.

  24

  The cab dropped DeMarco off in front of a Greek deli. Sammy Wix was sitting inside at a window table.

  “He’s in dat bar over dere,” Sammy said, pointing across the street with his narrow chin. “Guess he needed a snort.”

  “Me too, Sammy,” DeMarco said. He thought for a second. “Sammy, how soon do you have to leave?”

  “Not for an hour.”

  “Good. Why don’t you go into that place and have a drink yourself. See if Mattis is talking to anyone.”

  Sammy’s tongue flicked out of his mouth like a snake trying to catch a raindrop. “Chure, I can do dat,” he said.

  DeMarco took Sammy’s seat in the deli. Thirty minutes later, Sammy came back wearing a smile. Little bastard had a double, DeMarco thought. “He’s just sitting dere by hisself, boss,” Sammy said. “Drinkin’ beer, real slow. Maybe he’s not meetin’ somebody. Maybe he just feels like gettin’ hammered, or he don’t wanna go home right away to da old lady.”

  DeMarco could understand a man with Billy’s problems feeling the need for a few beers, but Billy didn’t strike him as a drinker.

  “Does the bar have a back exit, Sammy?”

  “Yeah, but it’s got one of dem fire alarm bars across it.” Sammy shuffled his feet a bit. Finally, he cleared his throat,
and said, “Uh, boss, I gotta get movin’. I don’t want to be late for my grandkid’s party. He’s my favorite, da little fucker.”

  “I understand, Sammy. Take off.”

  Sammy was a few paces away when DeMarco remembered his car. “Wait a minute, Sammy,” he called to him. “I don’t have any wheels. My car’s in the shop. If this guy takes off I’ll be in a bind. Can you take a cab and let me borrow your car? I’ll pay for the cab.”

  “No sweat, boss. And I’ll just take da Metro. It stops right by my daughter’s place. Here’s da keys to my wagon.”

  Sammy pointed to where his car was parked. “And, boss,” Sammy said, lowering his voice, “in case ya need it, dere’s a rod unda da front seat. A .38. It’s loaded and da safety’s off.”

  “Sammy,” DeMarco said, “if I find myself anywhere near a situation that requires a gun, I’ll call a cop.”

  The comment surprised Sammy. DeMarco looked like a guy who would have his own arsenal.

  DeMarco hoped Billy would keep drinking long enough for him to have dinner. He ordered a gyro and a beer and settled onto a stool by the window counter to wait. It turned out to be a long wait. He tried talking to the deli owner to pass the time, but the language barrier was insurmountable. The deli guy didn’t follow baseball and DeMarco didn’t speak restaurant economics. By eight, he had had two more beers and the owner was starting to close down his establishment. When he began mopping directly under the stool on which DeMarco was sitting, DeMarco took the hint and left to loiter in the doorway of a nearby computer store.

  At eight thirty, Billy finally emerged from the bar. DeMarco watched as he went over to his car and unlocked the door. For a man who had been drinking since five, Billy was surprisingly steady on his feet. Why would he spend almost four hours alone in a bar and still be sober? DeMarco wondered if he had been waiting for somebody and the person hadn’t shown up. Another possibility occurred to him as he became aware of the rapidly fading light: maybe Billy was waiting until dark to meet someone.

  Sammy’s car was a 1986 Plymouth station wagon that was longer than a limo. DeMarco was worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with Billy until he turned the key in the ignition. The wagon may have belonged in an automotive museum but the motor sounded as if it came from an Indy racer. Now if he could just find the gizmo to get the seat back before his knees were permanently disabled.

  DeMarco expected Billy to drive toward the Beltway and back toward Annandale where he lived, but instead he headed in the opposite direction. The longer DeMarco followed him the more puzzled he became. Instead of vectoring toward any of the arterials leaving the city, Billy was heading directly into the southeast segment of the District.

  Southeast D.C. is an urban combat zone, a social experiment gone badly awry. It’s a region of drive-by shootings, gang violence, and crack-induced mayhem. Driving through the area you keep your doors locked and pray you don’t run out of gas. DeMarco couldn’t imagine why Billy Mattis had decided to run this inner-city gauntlet.

  Billy crossed the John Philip Sousa Bridge and stopped near Minnesota Avenue. There was a bank with an ATM on one corner and a Rite Aid drugstore on the other. The drugstore had just closed for the day and the owner was dropping steel barricades down over the windows. Unlike DeMarco and his Georgetown neighbors, merchants in this neighborhood had no aesthetic pretensions about the heavy-gauge sheet metal covering their display windows.

  DeMarco drove by Billy and parked half a block away on the same side of the street. He couldn’t see Billy sitting inside his car but if he got out DeMarco would be able to watch him in his side-view mirrors.

  At exactly ten o’clock Billy emerged from his car, looked around cautiously, and went to the bank machine. While he was punching his code into the ATM, two African American teenagers turned the corner on the opposite side of the street.

  “Hey, money man,” one of them yelled, “if you gettin’ some green, get some for me.”

  Billy’s head jerked in the direction of the two teenagers and DeMarco could see he was strung tighter than Willie Nelson’s guitar. Realizing immediately that the boys didn’t pose a threat, Billy completed his transaction at the ATM. He counted the money issued from the machine but didn’t put it immediately into his wallet. A rather dangerous oversight in this neighborhood, DeMarco thought.

  DeMarco was distracted momentarily by the two kids. To celebrate Billy’s reaction to their wit they did a handshake routine so complicated it qualified as choreography, then continued down the street in DeMarco’s direction, joking with each other. They were directly across the street from where DeMarco was parked when a dark-colored sedan pulled around the corner and stopped next to the ATM.

  A man stepped from the sedan, keeping the car between him and Billy, and said something to Billy. Billy nodded his head and held up the cash in his hand. The man smiled—then raised the pistol he had been holding next to his right leg and shot Billy in the chest.

  Billy Mattis slammed backward into the wall of the bank. He stood for a second looking down in amazement at his bleeding chest then slowly slumped to a sitting position at the base of the ATM. His hands folded neatly into his lap as he collapsed. The shooter ran over to Billy, took the cash he was still holding, and ran back to his car. He revved the engine and came roaring down the street in DeMarco’s direction.

  DeMarco didn’t make a conscious decision to do what he did next. He just did it. It was an automatic reaction, devoid of any consideration of the consequences. He started the engine of Sammy’s finely tuned machine and pulled the nose of the station wagon away from the curb and directly into the path of the oncoming car. The impact of the collision knocked DeMarco across to the passenger’s side of the station wagon and his head banged hard against the window frame.

  DeMarco shook the pain away and looked over at the shooter’s car. It was stalled and the driver appeared to be unconscious. His head was pressing down on the horn ring, and DeMarco found the blaring of the horn strangely comforting.

  DeMarco’s brain finally caught up with his reflexes. He scrambled to find Sammy’s gun, the one Sammy had said was hidden beneath the driver’s seat. His hand flapped madly trying to locate the weapon and it seemed a small eternity before he struck hard metal. With the .38 in his hand, he slid out the passenger-side door of the station wagon and crouched behind the right front fender of the car for protection. Sammy had said the safety on the gun was off, which was a good thing since DeMarco didn’t know where the safety was.

  DeMarco could see the shooter was starting to recover from the collision. He sat up slowly, dazed and disoriented. Blood trickled down the left side of his face from a cut over his left eyebrow. A motion across the street caught DeMarco’s eye. It was the teenagers, huddled behind a Dumpster.

  He yelled at the teenagers, “Call 911! Get the hell out of here and go get the cops.” Neither of them moved. Damn kids.

  The shooter opened his door and slowly exited his car. He staggered and almost fell but recovered his balance. He was a thin-faced man about DeMarco’s height, wearing a lightweight beige suit and an open-collared white dress shirt. His hair was jet black with a deep widow’s peak, heavily oiled, and combed straight back from a hollow-cheeked, acne-scarred face. There was a large teardrop-shaped mole next to the man’s right eye.

  The mole was distinctive and DeMarco realized he knew the man. His name was John Palmeri and his father had been an associate of DeMarco’s dad. But unlike Joe DeMarco, John Palmeri had followed his father into the family enterprise. At age sixteen or seventeen, the last time DeMarco had seen him, Palmeri was on his way to a juvenile facility for hijacking a car. And now here he was, some twenty years later, in southeast D.C., killing a Secret Service agent. What the hell was going on?

  DeMarco could see that Palmeri was unsteady on his feet and looking as if he might pass out any second from the blow to his head. He watched in morbid fascination as a drop of blood rolled slowly down the side of Palmeri’s face and fell to hi
s shirt, making a small stain over his heart. Dangling down at the side of Palmeri’s right leg was a revolver that looked two feet long.

  DeMarco said, “John, drop the gun. Please.” DeMarco’s heart was pumping so much adrenaline it felt as if an electric current was passing through his body.

  Palmeri didn’t seem to hear DeMarco and continued to stand, weaving from side to side. It occurred to DeMarco that maybe Palmeri didn’t realize he was armed since he was crouched behind Sammy’s car. To get his attention, DeMarco stood fully erect and pointed Sammy’s gun at Palmeri like he knew what he was doing.

  As DeMarco stood up, Palmeri looked in his direction. There was no sign of recognition. He blinked several times as if trying to clear his vision and get DeMarco into clear focus—then he started to raise his gun. DeMarco was sure Palmeri didn’t realize how slowly he was moving.

  “John, drop the gun, goddamnit!” DeMarco screamed.

  Palmeri looked at him, eyes glassy, and continued to raise his weapon.

  Why the hell didn’t he drop the gun?

  But he didn’t. DeMarco thought he might have yelled again but later he wasn’t sure because at that moment Palmeri fired and a bullet ricocheted off the front bumper of Sammy’s car. The shot would have hit DeMarco in the gut or groin had the car not been there.

  DeMarco fired back immediately. He wasn’t trying to kill Palmeri. He jerked the hair trigger of Sammy’s gun out of sheer fright when the killer’s bullet zinged off Sammy’s car.

  DeMarco shot John Palmeri through the heart, completely by accident.

  DeMarco stood there, frozen in disbelief at what had just happened. He waited a moment to see if Palmeri would get up, knowing he wouldn’t, then walked slowly toward him, still pointing Sammy’s gun at the man’s prone form. DeMarco’s hand, the one holding the gun, was shaking as if he was afflicted with palsy.

  Palmeri’s black eyes were wide open, staring skyward at a God who had already forgotten him. His white shirt was absorbing blood like a blotter, the stain spreading geometrically, creating a perfect circle for his soul to pass through.